They're already here, Ayla thought desperately, running back up to the castle as fast as her legs would carry her. Already approaching, and we haven't even had word from Sir Rudolfus or Sir Waldar yet! What if Falkenstein's men attack before they and their reinforcements arrive? Or worse yet, what if they attack before the barricade is finished?
These thoughts continued to haunt her as she fled into the castle, for the first time really appreciating how thick and solid its walls were. They haunted her as she ran up the steps, and they haunted her as she hurried down the corridor. Only when she came to a standstill in front of one of the castle's oak doors did she realize that, without thinking, her feet had carried her to Reuben's room.
Why here? What do I want here? she asked herself. And then the answer came: she wanted someone to talk to, someone to share her fears with. Both Burchard and Isenbard were more than occupied right now. And apart from them, who was there that wouldn't already be more frightened than she was? The guards? The servants? It was her job to instill confidence in them, not undermine it! There was only one person she was fairly sure would not panic at the news.
Hesitantly, she opened the door and stepped in.
“Reuben?”
He was waiting for her, glaring up at her from his bed as if she had sent him an entire cauldron of fennel soup for breakfast.
“Reuben?” she asked, her voice wavering slightly. “What's the matter?”
“You aren't getting married, are you?” he growled.
She blinked, taken aback. “What kind of question is that?”
“The kind I would like to have answered!”
“Well then,” she snapped, her temper rising at his officious tone, “no, I'm not. Not if I can help it,” she added, thinking of the Margrave's ultimatum.
“Then what is that old fellow doing here?” Reuben demanded. “And what is that supposed to be?” He pointed towards the window. “That thing you're building in front of the bridge?”
“If by 'that old fellow' you are referring to Sir Isenbard—he is here in fulfillment of his oath of fealty to my father,” she said indignantly. “And the barricade is being built to protect us against the coming attack.”
*~*~**~*~*
Reuben's eyes narrowed. “What attack would that be?”
He saw a puzzled expression spread over her face. “The attack by the Margrave von Falkenstein of course! I'm sure I mentioned it before.”
“No, you did not,” Reuben replied, trying to keep his voice calm, but finding it increasingly difficult. He wished he could just get up and shake the girl! But no normal man would have been able to do that. It would immediately give away his special talent. His curse.
“Oh.” Ayla gnawed on her lower lip. Reuben thought she looked very cute when she did that, and would have tried to rein in his rage, but then she said: “Are you sure? Because I could swear I told you one time or another.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I think I'd remember you mentioning our impending slaughter.”
“Well, it must have slipped my mind, I guess,” she mumbled. “I'm sorry.”
“Yes, because sudden death is so easy to forget.” Reuben's voice was dripping with sarcasm.
“I said I was sorry,” she snapped.
“For dragging me into this death-trap of a castle? Well, I hope you understand my reluctance to accept your apology for drawing me into your own private war!”
“Would you have preferred being left to bleed to death out in the forest?”
“Hmm... let me think... Yes, I would have! Because then I wouldn't have had to deal with you before I died.”
He could see her sapphire eyes tearing up. “Nobody is going to die!” she managed in a hoarse voice. “We're going to stop the attack!”
Reuben remembered the soldiers in the forest. He remembered their hard eyes and their sharp swords. The girl looked so vulnerable, standing there in front of him, tears streaming down her face. How could she hope to win against such forces? He would have liked to be able to comfort her, to shelter her. Instead, he felt only anger. Anger at her, because apparently she was crazy enough to try and place herself in the soldiers' way. Anger at himself, because now that he knew of an approaching danger, there was no longer an excuse for him to stay.
A derisive snort escaped him. “Stop it? How? With your measly little barricade? That won't hold an enemy for a day!”
“What would you know of such matters?” she snapped. “You're nothing but a merchant! A commoner with less experience than a woman on the field of battle!”
If it had been anyone else speaking, Reuben would have killed them for this insult on the spot. As it was, he almost laughed! If she only knew... It made him want to tell her, to throw the truth in her face. Just in time, he remembered that he could not. She could never know the truth; she would have his head for it. And why waste one second standing here arguing with this wench, anyway? He had to leave, the quicker the better! He didn't want to get mixed up in this mess, did he...?
Clenching his teeth, he said: “You're right. I'm nothing but a commoner. A commoner who wants to stay alive. I'm leaving. Now!”
“Fine!” Ayla spat. “I don't need you anyway!”
She stormed out, slamming the door behind her and leaving Reuben behind, feeling guilty for some reason he couldn't fathom.
*~*~**~*~*
Immediately after leaving Reuben's chamber, Ayla ran into a broom cupboard and locked herself in to indulge for about a quarter of an hour in a fit of angry tears. Then, having finished with that, she had another fit, because she realized she had had the first one not because of the approaching army but because Reuben was leaving.
How could she even think of something like that at a time like this? She was supposed to be responsible and care for her people with sense and foresight, not lie sniffling in a corner because of some arrogant, self-centered, incredibly handsome rogue! Silliness like that definitely justified another fit of hysteria. Nobody, not even Dilli, would find her here.
Drawing her knees up to her face and burying her face in the muddy folds of her dress, she recalled what it felt like to touch his skin, to look into his gray eyes on one of those rare occasions when he was smiling. Never before had she felt something like the feeling that flooded her in moments like those. But she had heard it described many times. When minstrels came to Luntberg Castle, they always sang at least one song about it, often many. They sang of two people meeting, of fate, of a bond that could not be broken. They sang of love.
Yet they never sang of unrequited love.
This is reality, she thought, sadly. Getting to her feet, she opened the door and stepped over to the nearest window. Through a veil of tears, she watched her approaching black and silver doom.
The Margrave's banners fluttered high over the treetops. Relieved, she saw that the enemy wasn't approaching very fast. There seemed to be many foot soldiers and heavily loaded wagons among them. At their current rate of progress, Isenbard would be able to finish the barricade before the enemy was even out of the forest.
Then the foot soldiers moved aside and Ayla saw a detachment of riders gallop past. They advanced swiftly down the forest path, towards the bridge. The sharp points of their spears glinted in the midday sunlight.
“No!” Ayla moaned. “Please no!”
But like the pitiless blade of the executioner's ax, the riders continued on their way towards the bridge, towards the workers, towards her people. And from where they stood, they couldn't see it! The forest blocked the riders from the sight of everyone who was standing down in the valley by the bridge. Someone had to warn them!
Someone?
No, not someone. She.
Ayla looked around at the stone corridor. What was she doing here? Her place was down there, with her people. If she was going to run from every threat that advanced towards her, she might as well give up the castle right away and let the Margrave have it, the village, the fields, the woods—everything, even herself.
Wiping the remaining tears from her face, she turned and almost ran out of the castle.
“A horse,” she shouted to one of the stable lads. “Get me a horse, now!”
*~*~**~*~*
Reuben waited long enough for Ayla's footsteps to no longer be audible, then he sprang up, wobbling slightly as he did so. Damn uneven floor! The shoddy workmanship of whoever had built this sorry excuse for a castle made it more difficult than usual for him to stay on his feet. In addition, beads of sweat kept running down his face. Must be the climate. Even that was going haywire around the little minx. Nothing was normal where she was involved, he thought angrily—all the while knowing it was not her he was really angry with, but himself.
Not for the not inconsiderable number of mistakes he had made since entering this accursed castle. Not for his slowness in recognizing the real situation, the danger he was in. Not even for letting himself be knocked out and getting into this mess in the first place.
No, he was angry at himself because the first thought that flashed through his mind when he heard her explanation of the goings on in the valley and the building of the barricade was: So, she's not going to marry that old creep after all—thank God!
He was in mortal danger and the thing he most cared about was some silly girl's matrimonial arrangements, or lack thereof? Was he losing his marbles? The girl was his enemy. He should wish her all manner of evil, including a warty old troll for a husband. And yet he just couldn't help feeling relieved. He had to get out of this place and away from her before she robbed him of what little sense he still had left.
Remember last time, he told himself. Remember what happened when you thought there was a woman you could trust! They're all the same. Think of what the maid told you—the lady of the castle is feasting! Feasting when troops are marching to ravage her lands and plunge her people into misery and starvation. What person with a shred of honor would do something like that? These so-called “ladies” are all the same.
Hot emotions boiling within him, Reuben stormed to the garderobe and was about to grab all the clothes in there and stuff his pockets with everything of value he could find in the room, when he hesitated.
Whatever else might be said of Ayla, she had in fact saved his life. This was how he was going to repay her? He had robbed many people in his life—more than he could count. But never had he laid hands on the possessions of someone he was beholden to.
All right, this was because he had never actually been beholden to anyone, but still! He didn't feel comfortable taking her possessions. A rough laugh escaped his throat. He still had some of those... things left? What were they called again? Principles?
“Satan's hairy ass,” he cursed and stormed over to the chest where he had stored his half-eaten black pudding and chicken. She probably wouldn't want those in their current state anyway, so he might as well take them.
With his meager supplies stuffed into his pockets, he thrust open the door and ran down the empty corridor, eager to escape this place before the army arrived—or before he saw the girl again and changed his mind about leaving.
The floor here in the corridor was even more uneven than in his room. Damn, was it hard to stay on one's feet! The floor actually seemed to wobble. More and more sweat ran down his forehead, and the stone corridor before him came in and out of focus. What was the matter with him? He had braved entire armies by himself, surely it would be within his powers to walk ten more steps to the staircase? And from there it would be easy. Down. Just down and out and away.
He reached the staircase, though he had to steady himself against the wall to manage it. Carefully, he raised a foot and tried to find the first stair. He felt curiously light-headed, not at all like himself. Well, from now on, it would be easy. Down. Just down.
His foot came down. Missing the stair, it slipped from under him, and he fell. Or maybe flew?
Down.
Just down.
Into darkness.
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Greetings, Milords and Ladies!
This time we have a stairfaller instead of a cliffhanger ;) Again I couldn't find anything for the glossary today. On the side we have a picture of what I imagine the approaching army looks like. Fearsome, isn't it? ;)
Fare thee well!
Sir Rob